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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25782064">The Long Engagement</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palpalou/pseuds/Palpalou'>Palpalou</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rome (TV 2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(except for brutus being out of the loop on the enemies part), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, M/M, alternate universe - small town politics, enemies to lovers but still pretending to be enemies for clout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:55:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,651</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25782064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palpalou/pseuds/Palpalou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brutus has always tried his best not to get involved in politics, especially after the painful rift between his mother and Caesar, gone from allies to bitter rivals for the mayorship. But even constant low-grade dissociation might not get him through this.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger &amp; Gaius Cassius Longinus, Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger &amp; Servilia of the Junii, Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Something We Need to Talk About</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rome as a XXIst century small town elections AU… sounds legit ;) Also, this is basically local French politics as I understand them. Any resemblance to political parties or personalities remains implicit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“No croissant today?” his mother called out from the study. There was no direct line of sight into the hallway and, as a child, he used to half-believe she was omniscient when she seemingly divined whether he had left his raincoat at school before he even closed the door behind him. He had figured out, rather late in his adolescent years, that it was simply a matter of two fortuitously placed mirrors.</p><p>“I’m afraid not. There was a queue.” There had been no queue, but the wall across the street from the bakery was covered in electoral posters, the garish garland of candidates for the upcoming municipal elections. Seeing them made him feel sick to his stomach, so Brutus had decided he would entertain a different route between his apartment and her house for some time. It could have been his way to formally protest the situation, except for how he didn’t own up to it.</p><p>His mother hummed appreciatively. “Good for Mr Pullo!”</p><p>He hung his jacket on the sleek bronze coatrack his grandfather had commissioned from a young Le Corbusier, leaving his satchel against the wall, and pushed the door to his mother’s study fully open. Pale February light streamed in from the window but the honey and copper of the wainscoting still gave off a feeling of golden warmth. His mother was sitting at her desk when he came in, staring pensively at the screen of her sleek computer, but she got up to kiss him on the cheek.</p><p>“Diner is ready, my sweet, you just have to lay the table.”</p><p>Diner was chicken and peas with a scallop and butter sauce and a glass of dry white, courtesy of Eleni before she left for the week-end, and a salad, which his mother always prepared herself. There was a bit too much of the latter, as usual, enough for three. And Brutus did not remark on it, as usual.</p><p>Conversation was light, mostly Brutus relaying the highlights of his week and his mother smiling at some of the bank’s most fractious customers. But she was thinking about something else. Campaign trouble, maybe. The elections were now less than a month away.</p><p>Finally, she put both hands palm down in the table, sighed, and said.</p><p>“There’s something we need to talk about, Brutus.”</p><p>*</p><p>Brutus’ grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great uncle had all been mayors.</p><p>The hospital Brutus had been born in, the street where he had grown up, and the high school he had gone to all bore his own family name. It had never seemed strange to him until he moved from home to attend university, three hours of train and a world away, for his bachelor in banking and finance. That was also where he and Mark Antony became friends.</p><p>Mark Antony was from home too. Brutus had vague recollections of a boy with a head of thick dark curls who always took first place in the annual school race but they had never been in the same group of friends. In fact, they had been bitter enemies all throughout primary school, according to Mark Antony’s story to their guests.</p><p>“Really?” he interrupted, incredulous.</p><p>The man in question squinted at him from the sofa he was sprawled on, a plastic plate filled with tiny sausages balancing precariously on his stomach, as if he wasn’t sure whether Brutus was being humorous, shoulders wrapped in a soft white shirt which had always been too big on Brutus.</p><p>“Well, yes. Ever since your seventh birthday party, my sweet.”</p><p>“Don’t call me that”, Brutus replied automatically. Then he tried to remember his seventh birthday party, before quickly giving up. He wasn’t sure he could have even without the soft fruit punch haze he could feel around his thoughts. “Did I <em>ever</em> invite you to a birthday party?”</p><p>Antony scoffed, pointing a dramatic finger at him.</p><p>“That’s why!”</p><p>There were titters. A friend of Antony’s who shared the armchair with Brutus even pinched him playfully on the arm. “Oh, the monstrosity!”</p><p>Brutus himself couldn’t help a laugh, even as Antony continued.</p><p>“You invited half the class, so of course the other half spent the week hating you. I’m more consistent, so I resolved to hate you forever.”</p><p>Later on, when their guests had left and after they had gone straight to bed, leaving the leftovers and plastic cutlery out for tomorrow-morning-them to take care of, Brutus prodded Antony in the cheek until he turned towards him.</p><p>“…you don’t still hate me, right?”</p><p>Antony had blinked at him, eyes glassy with sleep in the half-light of the very early morning hours filtering through the curtains.</p><p>“No way, I love you now,” he’d said, voice slightly slurred, then he’d thrown an arm over his face and, a handful of seconds later, he was starting to snore. It had taken Brutus a lot more time to calm the pounding in his chest.</p><p>*</p><p>Brutus painfully swallowed his mouthful of bread.</p><p>“—Yes?” he said as soon as he could.</p><p>“Posca contacted me today. Julius is going to close his account with the bank.”</p><p> “I- What? There’s still three more years in the exclusivity contract.” Then his brain caught up. “Why didn’t Posca contact me directly? Or J- Julius?” He stumbled on the name, after so many weeks of avoiding it around his mother. It did not seem she had the same problem.</p><p>“There is evidence of you tampering with Julius’ money.”</p><p>It was like a bucket of ice water had just been emptied over his head. “Of course I didn’t”, he breathed out. “Of course not!”</p><p>She leant forward to place a soft hand on his, making him realise he was clenching his fork in a white-knuckled grip. “You must know, my sweet, that the campaign hasn’t been going as well as we could have hoped”, she said measuredly.</p><p>He stared at her blankly, but she continued in the same precise tone of voice.</p><p>“We have been having difficulties positioning the team both in the continuity of the party and as an alternative for Caesarean politics. It’s a delicate course to navigate, and he has a lot of sway… Undue sway, some might say. It seemed like a straightforward solution.”</p><p>Brutus shook his head. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>“Of course you do”, she said, a mild hint of reproach in her voice. “I’m sorry, Brutus. I know the situation is difficult for you. I never intended for you to get caught up in this.”</p><p>“Caught up in this?” he echoed feebly. He shook his head, took his hand away from hers to pinch the skin above his nose. Five years ago, he had been so proud when Caesar had entrusted him with his first finance portfolio. Even when he and his mother had had that fallout over his decision to run under a different banner for his third mandate, he had still reasserted his trust in Brutus’ impartiality, kept the account open. Knowing Posca, the most exacting man he had ever come across, he wouldn’t be slinging accusations around without first having gathered iron cast evidence. And it wasn’t as if his mother was denying anything.</p><p>“How did you manage to do it?” But the answer was obvious. “Oh. Cassius did it.” Cassius was a pleasant colleague, and probably the closest thing to a childhood friend Brutus had, except for how he apparently had had not the slightest compunction stealing Brutus’ means of identification and throwing him to the wolves. But he had always been a staunch partisan of his mother. He felt an uncomfortable prickle behind his eyes. “This is terrible. If—even if Caesar doesn’t sue, the bank will.” And not only would his career be over, he would probably end up with a criminal record at 27.</p><p>“The bank doesn’t have to know.” His mother’s calming tone was like grit on a wound, and Brutus jerked angrily.</p><p>“But they will! Because there’s no such thing as a no-fault account closure!”</p><p>His mother frowned, small lines showing around her eyes. She had always been the youngest of the mothers among Brutus', but she had aged in the last few months. She had taken Caesar’s decision as both a political and personal betrayal. “Posca is offering us a deal, Brutus; otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered to inform us of what they knew.” She sat back against the chair, sighing. “Conflict of interest is a no-fault.”</p><p>“… But there is no conflict of interest<em>.</em> Not officially. It was raised with the bank, when you launched your campaign, and Caesar waived his right to oppose… Otherwise, I couldn’t have kept the account…” She was shaking her head, and his voice slowly died out.</p><p>*</p><p>His diploma in hand, Brutus found work in one of the town’s main bank branches like a key finds a lock: as if it had been made for him. And in a sense it had. When he had declared his interest in studying accounting or finances, his mother only had to give a small tug to her web of relations to find that there would be a job for him there. And then again, maybe it was the key which had been made to fit the door. He had always loved numbers, and the mathematical interpretation of human preoccupations he found in economic models, but he had not specifically thought about a banking bachelor before receiving the anticipatory job offer.</p><p>At the end of his first week, his colleagues took him out for celebratory drinks. The atmosphere was informal. He was the youngest, but not by more than a handful of years, even though some were married already, had children, even, and thus seemed to Brutus much older than he.</p><p>Although the sky had already taken on its autumn colours, the air was still summer-warm, so the café had set out a few tables on the sidewalk. He was sitting elbow to elbow with Cassius in a pale brown corduroy jacket. He had vivid memories of playing with him when they were children, both on the handsome but abrasive rugs of the family house and on a beach which must have been a common holiday destination, of keeping friendly but rather more distant relations at school, where there were a few grades between them. Cassius was taller now, far from the stout boy who had carried Brutus on his back the time he had scrapped the sole of his foot bloody on craggy low-tide rocks, but his head of tight curls and his smile were still very much familiar.</p><p>Except the smile had taken on a strange twist at the corner as, the conversation having led to Brutus’ recent university years, Cassius remarked, “Do you know, Mark Antony was studying there at the same time as you.” There was a hum from the third person at their small round table, a bald man named Cimber who specialised in landholdings.</p><p>Brutus had come out to his mother in high school, and by now most people in his circle knew without him needing to make a declaration of it. He wasn’t naïve enough to think it didn’t influence the way people saw him, but variance was easy enough to accept in one’s circles, he had found out, compared to how irksome one found divergence in the other. Still, he was tactful in his relationships. He had never brought any of his boyfriends, few as they were, home. He hadn’t talked about Mark Antony to his mother, nor even to Julius, who sometimes seemed more congenial a confident.</p><p>He had no idea why Mark Antony would even be on Cassius’ radar, and he didn’t like how unsettled it made him feel all at once. He could have told him he was still there, finishing is degree. He could have replied with a nonchalant, <em>I do know, we’re together</em>, or even the more discreet, <em>we shared a flat</em>.</p><p>Instead, he heard himself say “… Mark who?”</p><p>Casca snorted at that, and Cassius shrugged good-humouredly, the same strange twist to his smile now somehow smug. Conversation turned to the football season which had opened in August, Casca turning around in his seat at some point to join in with the other table.</p><p>Brutus blinked into his glass of beer, unsure whether the lie had been out of discretion, or cowardice. And unsure why it felt like a betrayal of Mark Antony, who would never know and probably not care that Brutus had pretended not to recognise his name once, and in all likelihood didn’t know Cassius from Adam.</p><p>*</p><p>The light streaming in from the window behind her lit up his mother’s silhouette even as it put her face in shadow. Still, Brutus could make out the tight, tense line of her mouth.</p><p>“You’re going to have to marry Mark Antony.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Bit Funny</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The town hall used to be Brutus’ great-grandfather’s house before he had left it to the municipality in his testament and, if the upper floors had been partitioned into corridors and offices to host the administrative staff, the large gala hall of the ground floor still looked mostly as it had a century ago. The aged white stones of the walls and ceiling seemed, thanks to the discrete arrangement of the illuminations, to glow with their own soft light.</p><p>The town’s dignitaries mingled in small, shifting groups according to the currents of their conversations, a few waiters circling around making sure nobody’s glass was empty.</p><p>Brutus had had a de facto standing invitation to town hall functions since he was old enough to know to sneak off to bathroom when needed, and most faces were familiar. He had spent the better part of the hour talking with Atticus, who owned a large vineyard just outside the town and whose personal wealth was counted in millions, and with his friend Cicero. Even Cato, though he loudly professed to hold nothing but contempt for the current mayor’s politics, was there, glowering fearsomely at various people, and he caught regular glimpses of his mother and Julius playing host, with Posca generally hovering around them somewhere.</p><p>And now Mark Antony as well.</p><p>Brutus had spotted him as soon as he was let in, slightly late because he was coming straight from work. He had seen the matching dark grey jacket and trousers hanging in Mark Antony’s closet before, a cut above his usual clothes, but he had never had the opportunity to see the suit on him. Brutus always worried his own made him look like a teenager playing dress up but, on Mark Antony’s more solid frame, the contrast between the clean lines of the suit and his youthful face only made him more handsome. He had looked sleekly professional, even a little dangerous with his curls slicked back, which Brutus guessed might be the look a political consultant would go for. It took an effort to look away, lest someone noticed him gawking.</p><p>The occasion for the get-together, of course, was not the addition of a new member to Julius and his mother’s staff, however good he looked in a suit, but rather the short-haired young woman he could see talking with them by the buffet. From what he understood, she was touring the region trying to shore up land support for the party which had just won the presidential elections. The presidential race could have been a fluke, as Brutus’ mother thought, or the marker of a tidal change in politics, which seemed to be Julius’ view, but the municipal elections in two years would be the true litmus test for the new-born party’s capacity to last more than a season.</p><p>Brutus privately thought she was wasting her time here. This town was as unchanging and unshakeable as the strong stone of the very town hall’s foundations. Nothing changed, because nothing could upset a perfect balance. Still, it was no concern of his. He let his mother and Julius to their delicate alchemy of influence and focused on his own long hours of mingling.</p><p>The edge between pleasantly tipsy and slightly too obviously drunk was a fine one. It had grown dark enough outside to make the windows into mirrors when Brutus realised he was teetering on the wrong side of it.</p><p>The second time he stumbled on a word, he excused himself discreetly from a discussion on vinicultural investment and headed towards a door nearly hidden in the shadow of the great staircase.</p><p>It opened into a cramped passageway which used to lead to a small well garden before the town hall was extended, the well built over and the door bricked up. He didn’t bother to switch on the light, only taking out his phone so he didn’t trip on a pile of chairs or a rolled-up carpet as he looked for a place to sit. This was where the furniture usually in the larger room was kept to free up space, and it had been Brutus’ hiding spot of choice for more than a decade.</p><p>Behind him, he heard the door open and close again with a soft click.</p><p>“You look good.”</p><p>Brutus looked down at himself as if he had forgotten what he had on. It was the same light brown suit he always wore at the bank.</p><p>“I look like I always do.”</p><p>Mark Antony hummed.</p><p>“Maybe you always look good, then. But no, you look pinker than usual.”</p><p>“Oh. Yes.” He made a slightly precarious turn on his heels. “That’s because I’m slightly drunk.”</p><p>Even in the half-light of his phone, he could see the amused glint in Mark Antony’s eyes. A <em>fair fatal face to me</em>, he thought. He'd write it down later, if he remembered it. His curls were still combed down, more like Brutus’ usual style than his own, which made him want to step close and ruffle him up. He kept his hands by his side, because they would have to step back out into the light eventually, but he did come closer. He was tipsy, no doubt about it, and Mark Antony’s cologne smelt good. Brutus tipped his heavy head into the crook of his shoulder and laid a kiss on the warm skin right above the stiff collar of his shirt, then rested his full weight on Mark Antony. He felt him huff out a short laugh even as his arms came up around his waist for balance.</p><p>“Can’t be drunk around <em>that</em> crowd, they would eat you right up. Well, maybe not you,” and Brutus could feel Mark Antony’s shoulder bob under his chin as he shrugged, “they’re your crowd, after all.” After a handful of seconds, he added. “Everybody still thinks we hate each other, by the way.”</p><p>The words disturbed Brutus out of his lazily draped state. Mark Antony’s voice had been amused, but he could wear cheer like a fancy coat, so he pushed himself back up to see his face, easier to read even in the half-light. “…You mind?”</p><p>He blinked, looking surprised at the question. Maybe he really hadn’t meant it that way.</p><p>“Well... no. No, it’s fine actually. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, and raised his chin so he could kiss Brutus lightly on the lips. “I’m your dirty little secret, eh?”</p><p>Brutus opened his mouth, let him deepen the kiss, before the words, once again, caught up to him, and he broke away with a frown.</p><p>“My <em>little secret</em>, you mean,” he said, authoritative. Then he paused and thought about it. “And, not so little. You know.” Tomorrow he would blame that dismal joke on the wine, but presently Mark Antony snorted even as he playfully pressed his hips against Brutus’, and Brutus glowed.</p><p>In fact, they didn’t do much more than sit on the rolled-up carpet, which proved quite comfortable in the end, and kiss for some time, Brutus always amazed at how well their faces fit together.</p><p>Although there was no convenient mirror, he was reasonably certain he left the passageway at least as pink-faced as he’d come in.</p><p>*</p><p>There had been a moment, Brutus realised only as he was standing on the pavement outside his mother’s front door, when he could have come clean.</p><p>Probably as soon as she had pronounced Mark Antony’s name, but the scheme was so outlandish that he could have been forgiven a few minutes of tongue-tied stupefaction. If he had simply said, <em>Actually, Mark Antony and I have been fucking for years, Mom. So you and Julius and Posca will have to find another lynchpin for your bizarre pact of non-aggression</em>.</p><p>Because this was the essence of it. Julius, of course, must know he would never have manipulated the accounts. They had known each other for so long! But he would stand in as his mother’s son, and Mark Antony for Julius, as the rising star of his campaign staff, in a kind of hidden-in-plain-sight covenant. Brutus wondered whether they picked Mark Antony simply because he was unapologetically bisexual, or if their rumoured enmity was the determining factor.</p><p>There had been a moment to speak. But he had hesitated, swallowed, and it was gone.</p><p>He took out his phone, hesitated with his thumb poised above the digital keyboard, then stuffed it back into his coat pocket and started in the direction of Mark Antony’s flat. He did not have the faintest idea of how to put the situation in texts.</p><p>The lights were out again in the narrow, well-like staircase, but by now Brutus could make the climb to the third floor with his eyes closed. It came in handy regularly. The building was old enough that maintenance struggled to keep up, but Mark Antony hadn’t even looked at a listing since he had moved in when he had come back from university, two years later than he was supposed to, after having decided on pursuing a master.</p><p>At the time, Brutus had refused Mark Antony’s idea to take a flat together, half because he was living in a studio his mother owned within walking distance of the bank, half out of petulance, he realised even at the time, for the two additional years of Mark Antony’s absence.</p><p>Now he spent most of his nights here anyway, even if he had to leave early in the mornings to get back to his flat before work for a change of clothes. It was too small for two people, and Mark Antony could have afforded much better with his emoluments, but the cheap furniture and the cramped conditions reminded Brutus of university, when being with Mark Antony was as easy as slipping under the same blanket in the evenings.</p><p>From the hallway, he could see Mark Antony’s feet poking out from where he was presumably sprawled on his tiny living room’s sofa, oxfords flung off as soon as he came in but socks still on, as always, even though it meant he had to buy new ones every other month when the fabric grew too thin under the heel. Brutus set his own shoes down by the door carefully and toed on the pair of slippers he kept here, and was surprised that the small ritual made him feel briefly steadier.</p><p>Mark Antony had the same shadows under his eyes as his mother, the mark of many late nights of campaign strategising. He was holding his mobile phone loosely in his right hand, and stared in mute consternation at Brutus.</p><p>Brutus pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer, feeling his anxiety creep back up at once.</p><p>“I guess you know– ”</p><p>“–shit, you know already?”</p><p>Brutus blinked.</p><p>“…yes. Did Caesar call you?”</p><p>“We hung up approximatively ten minutes before you came in.”</p><p>Brutus grimaced. “My mother told me at diner.”</p><p>Mark Antony raised an incredulous eyebrow.</p><p>“And then you came here? Then half an hour ago at the very least.” He huffed out a breathy bark of a laugh. “Meaning he knew neither of us was going to refuse.” There was a hint of admiration in his voice. There often was when he was talking about Julius, although it wasn’t often about traits Brutus himself found particularly commendable.</p><p>“I don’t see what there is to smile about”, he said sullenly.</p><p>Mark Antony shrugged.</p><p>“We’re just going to pretend to be pretending to be disgustingly in love in public while secretly despising each other for a handful of months then go back to pretend to publicly despise each other while you keep secretly swapping my toothbrush with a new one every month because you’re a dental hygiene freak. I find that a <em>bit</em> funny.” He tilted his head to get a better look at Brutus’ face. “You didn’t tell your mother about us, right?”</p><p>Brutus yearned for a glass of alcohol, whatever the kind, but Mark Antony didn’t keep any at home. He shook his head. “And you didn’t say anything either, I gather.” There was some free space left on the couch, so he sagged down between Mark Antony’s outstretched arm and the armrest, not quite touching, not quite not hoping Mark Antony's hand would slip down to his neck. “… Is Julius angry at me?”</p><p>Mark Antony waved a non-committal hand.</p><p>“Apparently your mother was trying to make it look like he had unexplained funds coming in through this account, and politicians tend to be a bit touchy about that kind of thing. I think he was expecting some kind of below the belt move, though. Now that she’s played her hand and that he’s gotten her pinned with this engagement, it’s going to be much harder for her team to keep harmonising around the 'fundamental divide' between Caesar’s politics and hers from now on.” He thought for a few seconds. “And the gay son angle might cost her a few voters as well. So, all in all… He might be. I guess he might think you’ve not been as prudent as you should have been with his account.”</p><p>Brutus groaned. "Cassius went behind my back."</p><p>"Cassius Longinus?"</p><p>"You know him?" He knew Cassius disliked Mark Antony from afar, but it was the case of a lot of people, he had learnt, which he attributed to Mark Antony's abrasive personality on one side, and a hint of social territoriality on the other.</p><p>"Kind of." Off Brutus' perplexed look, he elaborated offhandedly. "We both ran track in high school. I didn't know he was in politics, though."</p><p>"He's– He's an old friend, and he knows my mother. He's <em>into</em> politics, I guess." He frowned. "Obviously much more than I thought. I-"</p><p>He interrupted himself when Mark Antony's phone chimed.</p><p>"That's Posca." There was a moment of waiting as Mark Antony read, then: "We've got an interview set up tomorrow. The journalist will call in the morning to coordinate... Well, I guess they'll tell you as well." He blinked, then frowned. "We've just set up a strategy meeting for tomorrow", he mumbled through his teeth.</p><p>Brutus looked on as he composed a rapid question and received a near-instantaneous answer which had him huff out a tense breath. "It's still on. How long's the interview supposed to last? One hour? A lunch interview's got to last longer, right? Timing's going to be short," he muttered. "Oh well." He turned back to Brutus with a glibly apologetic smile: "Looks like I won't be turning in right away."</p><p>His smile was ever so slightly brittle at the corners. Brutus wondered whether he should call attention to it. But he wouldn't appreciate it, probably. Otherwise, why the facade? So he just smiled back, an oblique, slightly awkward thing.</p><p>On the table which doubled as his desk, Mark Antony's computer was still out, screen idling, surrounded by piles of folders and fanned-out colour-coded data sheets.</p><p>"I'm sorry", he said softly, not quite sure whether he was empathising or apologising. Mark Antony sent back a slightly puzzled look, his mind already on whatever it was he needed to finish in time for tomorrow.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ft. a blink &amp; you miss it Cleopatra !</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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